The Ballad of Pumpkin Patch (Part VI)

August 10, 2015

Friday night I did something really stupid.

I decided to go out by myself. It was a Pine Leaf Boys and Feufollet night at the Blue Moon. I was sure to know someone there and I wanted to dance. I put on this adorable new, ivory brocade skirt I bought at a second hand store and a black tank top. I looked cute, if I do say so myself. I drank wine and wrote at Pamplona before then headed to the Moon around 10pm. My weird friend Michael had texted me earlier announcing that he would be there but later in the evening.

There were a lot of people there but not the usual crowd. A lot of strangers. Frat boys and basic bitches. I think maybe the proceeds were going to a victim’s fund and people who might not usually frequent the Moon, were out to show support. They were annoying. No body was dancing. There was no one to dance with. I had a beer on top of the two glasses of wine. After a couple of hours, I was bored and annoyed and inebriated. I thought about where I really wanted to be. Who I really wanted to be with. I got my purse and took out my phone.

“Hey, are you awake?” I texted Pumpkin Patch. It was around midnight.

“Yes, I’m watching Silicon Valley.” he replied.

“I want to see you.” I said.

“You want to come over?” he asked.

“I can’t drive right now.” I said. “Besides, I don’t have my car.”

“I’m too tired to drive.” he replied.

I read those five words and fell apart. Too tired to drive? I knew right then he didn’t really want to be with me. If I had texted that to Z, he would have said, “I’ll be at your apartment in half an hour.” I did text things like that to him, many times. He would have dropped what he was doing and pulled up at the Moon to pick me up.

I was embarrassed. I tried to pull back.

“I’m sorry for being impulsive. Goodnight.”

“You don’t need to be sorry. That was an interesting proposal you had.”

I was sitting on the steps in front of the Moon, looking at my phone when Michael walked up. “Come dance,” he proposed. I wasn’t in the mood anymore. “I might meet you inside.” I said.

I put my beer down on the sidewalk and got up and left. I walked home and cried myself through a shower falling asleep.

The next day, I apologized again for the impulsive, drunken booty call. I admitted that I was sending mixed signals and I told him I wouldn’t do it again.

But that, not even that was enough to get me to give up on old Pumpkin Patch. No, I had one more thing up my sleeve.